


None So Ill

by Verecunda



Category: Frontier Wolf - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate POV, Autumn, Historical, M/M, Military Ranks, Non-Explicit Sex, Romantic Tension, Trick or Treat: Treat, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-13 15:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21164039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: Julius Gavros found himself drawn to his successor from the first, but it was not the right time for such thoughts. The right time did not come till later, after more than a year, with the Frontier going up in flames behind them.





	None So Ill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chantefable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/gifts).

> Happy Trick or Treat!

Rumour of the new Ducenarius’ disgrace came north far ahead of the new Ducenarius himself, and Julius Gavros shared his men’s apprehensions as they awaited his coming. They were his Wolves, and he did not want to hand them over to one who thought nothing of sacrificing the lives of other men to mask his own retreat from danger. But long and bitter experience had taught him that the Army also loved its whitewash and its scapegoats, more than one of whom had ended up among the wolf-pack; and so, like the rest, he was prepared to withhold judgement until he saw the man for himself.

Granted, his first glance of Alexios Flavius Aquila, as he dismounted in the forecourt of the Principia, was not a promising one. Though he was already garbed in the official dress of the Frontier Scouts, his crisp salute spoke fully of the spit and polish of the Legions, of regulations and uniformity that held almost no meaning here upon the Frontier, and which mixed with the ways of the Frontier Wolves as readily as oil mixes with water. And he was young — so very young! — a mere stripling, slight and narrow as a willow-wand. His face was more the face of a boy than a man, and the sharp, hawkish lines of it gave him an arrogant cast. But as he met those grey eyes fully for the first time, Gavros fancied he caught a shadow of fear behind them, and it seemed to him that if the new Ducenarius’ looks betrayed any dissatisfaction at the sight of the old fort and tatterdemalion, rascally group that were now to be his, the greater part of that dissatisfaction was turned inward upon himself. There was reserve, but not petulance, and it made Gavros disposed to feel a certain sympathy towards him.

This sympathy for young Aquila increased all throughout that first evening, and not only because he bore the mark of a brother devotee of Mithras. As Gavros showed him the Principia and the Sacellum, talking him through the fort’s customary way of doing its business, Aquila listened closely, and what questions he asked were intelligent and to the purpose. Later, he even won the cautious respect of the other officers when he proved himself coolly equal to Hilarion’s provocations — so much so, in fact, that Gavros was taken aback by how honestly miserable he seemed, once they were alone in his quarters, by the thought that the men already knew of what had happened at Abusina. Miserable, but he made no excuses, nor yet made any attempt to cast the blame elsewhere. He seemed to take the thing fully on his own shoulders.

Inexperience, the official ruling had been. Not cowardice, treachery, or even mere incompetence. And Gavros now thought that perhaps for once in the history of the Eagles, the official ruling had been the just one. He cast a glance at young Aquila, whose harsh face was softened with unhappiness as he looked down at the heavy emerald signet ring on his hand, and felt himself suddenly possessed by a fierce desire to do right by the lad.

“That is why we are having a full-dress takeover parade tomorrow morning,” he said, “and you are going to walk up and down the ranks with me and look every one of them straight in the eye as if you didn’t give a broken sandal strap.”

Aquila’s face betrayed a flicker of doubt, but when the time came for the parade the next morning, he went out and did exactly that. Nor was it mere play-acting. There was a vein of true quality in Alexios Flavius Aquila, thought Gavros, the true stuff of command, which could — given time — be forged into something great. 

“That was well done,” he said, impressed, as they dismissed the men; and though Aquila made no reply, he turned his head and flickered him a tentative, but very genuine smile.

He had even more cause to be impressed later that day, when he took Aquila to meet Ferradach Dhu, and the young Ducenarius revealed that he spoke the British tongue and knew something of the customs of the Tribes, so much so that even that shrewd old eagle was quickly won over and was glad to welcome him to his fireside. Then in came the chieftain’s two sons, steady Cunorix and quicksilver Connla, and in the course of things the three young ones fell to talking, leaving the two grey-muzzles to themselves once more.

“Aye,” said Ferradach Dhu, glancing at them, pleased, “I am thinking the Young Wolf will prove a friend to the clan as you have been, after all.”

Gavros, too, glanced over at Aquila, deep in talk with Cunorix, and saw them as they struck hands upon some agreement. Perhaps it was only a trick of the afternoon light that fell in honey-rich slants through the small high windows of the halls, but somehow the severe lines of his face had softened with warmth, and like the shadow of a cloud passing from the face of a hillside, his expression seemed lighter and more open. For the first time since coming to Castellum, he looked youthful and careless, with shame forgotten and the life bright within him.

_Beautiful._ The word came unbidden to Gavros’ mind, and as it did, it sent a rush of heat through him to warm his blood. Quickly, he took his gaze away from Aquila, but just in time to catch what looked to him to be a very shrewd and laughing smile on the face of Ferradach Dhu.

-

But the lightening lasted only until they returned to Castellum, and once within the shadow of its walls again, Aquila soon withdrew back into himself. Over the course of that evening and the whole of the next day, Gavros was occupied with showing him the rest of the fort and passing on whatever scraps of advice he could think to give. Aquila was as attentive as before, clearly of the mind that he should learn as much as was needful to allow him to do the thing well, and Gavros found himself moved by his dedication.

But as the last day lengthened towards its end, he felt a shadow of his own fall across him. He had expected that he would be sorry to leave behind the Third Ordo, after having the command of them all these years, but even so, he was surprised by how heavy it was upon his heart, now that the hour of his departure was so close upon him. Indeed, it grew so heavy that after dinner, he excused himself early from the Mess, leaving Aquila sitting with Lucius and his Georgics, while Hilarion diced with an increasingly vexed Anthonius, and Kaeso slipped further into his usual stupor. 

Outside, he passed between the barrack blocks, hearing the voices and laughter of the men within, so intensely familiar that his heart clenched within him as he made his way out of the fort, past the horse-lines, and down to the water’s edge, where the river flowed out into the estuary. Here, he leaned against a grim stone statue of a lioness with a bound barbarian caught in her devouring jaws, the remains of an old monument put up to some long-forgotten officer from the days of the Emperor Severus, when Castellum had boasted a full garrison and thriving harbour, the very lifeblood of the old Frontier.

It was the edge of a long, light autumn twilight. Above him the sky was a deepening blue, piercingly clear, melting in the west into a great band of pale meadowsweet gold, while the dark clouds hung low with fire in their bellies. A soft salt-laced wind breathed in from the estuary, lightly stirring the dark glass of the water and setting the long grass to whispering. Two gulls circled high above, and somewhere over the river, a redshank called unseen. For a long time, he simply stood there, breathing it in and folding it into his heart one more time. Then all at once, the awareness came on him that he was no longer alone, and he turned to see Ducenarius Aquila. He was standing some way away yet, with his own horse. They stood by the water’s edge, and as Gavros watched, Aquila drew the mount’s head close to his own, stroking down his nose and murmuring to him. He whickered softly, and Aquila smiled, a soft, wholly unconscious smile, and the sight of it sent another frisson of warmth through him.

At almost the same moment, almost as if he had felt Gavros’ gaze upon him, Aquila drew up his head, like a hound catching a scent, and swung his head round. Upon seeing Gavros, standing there among all the old and half-toppled stones of Castellum’s bygone days, startlement came into his face, swiftly followed by a clouded, uncertain look.

“Oh!” he cried, a dark flush rising across his sharp cheekbones. “I am sorry, sir, I only brought Phoenix down to water. I did not know you would also be here.”

Quickly, Gavros put up a hand. “Nay, lad, you’re no imposition. I’m only standing here thinking. Come, join me if you like.”

Aquila still looked doubtful, as if he thought he did not quite have the right, but after the first hesitation he assented, and with a gentle hand upon his mount’s head, led him over. There they stayed for some time in silence, each gazing out across the water and wrapped in his own thoughts.

“Ah, me,” sighed Gavros. He had meant it only for himself, but out the tail of his eye he saw Aquila look at him. “It’s a strange thing, how a place can wind itself into your blood.”

Aquila said nothing, and turning his head, Gavros saw him frowning towards the estuary, his face once more still and hard. Gavros knew well enough what he was seeing, for he had seen himself when he had first brought the Third Ordo north: the vast dun flats of mud and sand, the great mingling of sea and sky: the world’s end, disappearing into the Beyond. The desolation of exile. How well he remembered his own feelings, the bitter sureness that he had reached the end of his own career.

“It’s hard country,” he said, “but wait you some little time, and it will all seem familiar as your chalk Downs in the south.”

Aquila gave one stiff little nod, manifestly unconvinced. Then, in a low voice, low but very earnest: “I wanted to thank you, sir, for all your advice these last days. You have been — you’ve been very kind, and I am most grateful for it. Mithras knows, I have need of all the advice I can get.”

“Ach.” Gavros shook his head with a smile. “There’s no great mystery to it, only a matter of finding the pulse of the thing. Sometimes you must listen hard, but always it’s there.”

As they stood there, they saw a returning patrol of the Arcani come down to the ford on the other side, the water softly frothing beneath the ponies’ hooves. As they went, each one of them saluted the Lady as they passed her by, and Gavros saw how Alexios watched them.

“Aye,” he said, amused, “that’s one of the things that takes some feeling into. Your eyes are new here, and I daresay it must look like a quaint old custom of ours, here at the back of Beyond.”

Aquila flushed all over again and dropped his eyes, as if ashamed of being caught out. “I wanted to ask, but I was worried that might offend. Is it a custom of the Tribes, then?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard, though to be sure the Dalriads and the Votadini among us all seem to find some meaning in it, as much as the Romans.”

“Is it done for luck, or—?” He let the question go unfinished, uncertain.

“As to that,” said Gavros, scratching his chin, “I couldn’t rightly say. It’s not a thing that’s easy to put into words. Maybe there’s a bit of that in it. The Lady has stood here since the world was young, and I daresay she’ll stand here even when Rome is forgotten here in the North. She’s seen much. Whoever raised her had their own gods, long before even the Tribes brought their Horned One and Lugh of the Long Arm to these hills, and certainly before ever we brought Jupiter and Mithras and the Christos. Maybe it’s these lost old gods we sense here, when we pass over the ford from Castellum and into the Wild, clinging on still at the edge of the world; or maybe in that old stone we sense some way to pray to all gods, ancient and new.”

Now Aquila looked at him keenly, with the undeniable flicker of a smile about his lips. “I think it is not only the Arcani who dream strange dreams here, sir.”

Gavros could not help but laugh. It was the first time he had seen his young successor tread so close to insolence with him, and it brought the warmth to his heart. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s high time I got back to civilisation, as Hilarion said, and left Castellum to you, young Aquila.”

“Alexios,” he said softly.

“Ha?”

“Alexios,” he repeated, more clearly now. “With everyone — my friends — I am usually called Alexios.”

“Very well,” assented Gavros, and tried the name upon his tongue, “Alexios.”

Ducenarius Aquila — _Alexios_ — gave a tentative smile, pleased. They were quite alone now, the returning Arcani having by now passed into the fort, and silence, but for the murmur of the water’s edge, now hung all about. The gloaming had by now slipped into the deepening shadows, and the sky above was now turning to a deep indigo. All that was left of the setting sun now was a narrow burning band cresting the western hills, and the wind coming in off the firth now had a breath of frost in it. But down here at the river’s mouth, the silence between them lingered warmly. In the gathering night, Gavros considered Alexios, his slight figure made slighter still without the familiar grey bulk of a wolfskin about him, reserved but very earnest; and the longing rose strong within him, like a sudden swelling of the wind. 

For a heartbeat and more he let himself indulge in the thought of what a sweet thing it would be, to take Alexios to his bed, to kiss that tense mouth into pliancy, see those stark features go soft with desire, feel those long limbs entwined with his. To offer him a place where he might safely lose himself, throw off the shadows that clung to him — at least for a time. These imaginings and more washed through him, fierce and heady as barley-spirit, and he felt the words of the offer gathering there upon his tongue.

But he checked himself in time. Ah, it was a fine thought, but it would never do. Here among the wolf-pack, such couplings were not considered the dire breaches of discipline that they might be in the Legions, and there were few who would grudge a man his finding what comfort he could here beyond the Frontier, but it wouldn’t answer here. Thinking soberly on it, he could not be certain that this mutual liking was the same for Alexios as it was for him. After all, even though a man’s looks might run towards the Greek, it did not necessarily follow that his tastes ran the same way. And even if they did, it would be an ill thing while the lad clearly felt himself obliged to Gavros in some way. Wrong, too, for Gavros to seize upon his loneliness and uncertainty while he was yet new to Castellum and the Wolves. It would be an unequal bout, and whatever brief sweetness they might find in the moment itself would in all certainty turn sour quickly enough in the first cold light of day. Better to leave it be.

“Come,” he said at last, feeling the true night-chill falling upon him, even through his wolfskin. “Let’s get your Phoenix back to the horse-lines, then we can see if there is still some wine to be had in the Mess.”

Alexios assented, and together they made their way back to the fort. But Gavros slept that night as he had done the last two, alone and with the door-curtain between him and the restless Alexios, and in the morning he rode out with his escort, striking out along the south road that would take him by-and-by to his new command, leaving Alexios to Castellum and the Third Ordo.

-

It was a year and more before he saw Alexios Flavius Aquila again, in the Commandant’s office in Habitancum, one night after Midwinter. Though all about them the whole fort throbbed with the preparations for their withdrawal, in the office there was silence as the young Ducenarius made his report. He stood before the Commandant’s desk, the bandage upon his shield-arm oozing darkly with blood, deep wells of shadow beneath his eyes and showing through the growth of several days’ beard upon his cheeks. His report he made in a dead-level voice, detailing the Third Ordo’s retreat from Castellum ahead of the Votadini and their newfound shield-brothers.

Gavros said nothing, standing to attention throughout it all, but when Alexios informed the Commandant that the evacuation of the garrison had been of his own deciding, he could not but give an involuntary little start. The name of Abusina darted through his mind, and Alexios caught his eye just long enough for him to know that the significance had not been lost on him, that he should have found himself facing much the same decision after barely a year and a half. Then the look was broken, and Alexios returned to his report. He held on resolutely till the end, when he seemed to sway upon his feet, and the Commandant ordered Gavros to take him to the surgeon.

The infirmary was already a-heave with the weight of wounded that had come in that night, but even so, Gavros could not fail to see how the men of the Third made a lane for their Commander as he came through, and accosted the camp surgeon to have his arm redressed. Alexios submitted to his treatment with tired resignation, and when at last the surgeon released him, he allowed Gavros to circle an arm about his shoulders and bear him away.

“You can go in my quarters tonight,” Gavros said. “Like as not I’ll be on duty all night, and there’s no sense in letting a good cot go wanting.”

“No,” said Alexios, his voice tired but very clear. “My men—”

“I will see them settled,” Gavros assured him. “There’s room enough to see them comfortably bestowed, but it is no good you’ll be to them dead on your feet. You need your rest, my lad.”

But Alexios was insistent. “Not until they are provided for.”

His tone would brook no gainsaying, so very different from his uncertainty of a year ago, and Gavros found he could do nothing but relent, but he insisted on accompanying him as he went in search of his men. The survivors of the Third and First Ordos had already been put to the most complete of Habitancum’s disused barrack-blocks, for there were plenty of them in a fort that had once held a thousand-strong Cohort, and they were already well employed in making their dens for the night. Gavros remained with Alexios as he saw that they were decently provisioned with such blankets, clean clothes, and hot food as could be spared them from the quartermaster’s stores, then they left the whole under the supervision of Hilarion — who, Gavros noticed, now no longer looked upon his Commander with mocking eyes — and Alexios suffered to have himself drawn away to Gavros’s own quarters. After establishing him in his sleeping-cell, Gavros went out to the Mess and managed to scavenge a tin of hot stirabout mixed through with lumps of scorched mutton, which he bore back and pressed upon Alexios. At first he shook his head, but Gavros insisted, putting it firmly into his hands.

“Eat. You need to get some blood back in you.”

This was undeniable wisdom, and in the face of it Alexios yielded at last. Gavros stayed with him while he ate as much as he could stand; then, just as he was taking the mess-tin away, the trumpets outside rang for the changing of the watch.

“Now,” he said, “I’m for my rounds. Get you some sleep in here, and I will be back as soon as I can be released.”

Alexios nodded, but made no move to do so much as undo his cross-gartering, and when Gavros paused in the doorway to throw a last glance at him over his shoulder, he was still sitting on the edge of the narrow cot, staring down at his clasped hands.

His rounds that night included the places where the men from Castellum and Bremenium were camped. By the time he came to them, they were already well established in their chosen sleeping-places. Despite all their travails, and their deep fatigue, there was an air of pride, even excitement, about them as they sat about their campfires. They cheerfully accepted the spare tunics and blankets handed out to them, and more cheerfully still the jars of barley-spirit that the more charitable souls of the Second donated to them, and they were full of high, proud talk about their doings on the way south, especially the doings of their Commander.

Gavros listened his fill of this talk, before seeking out Hilarion, whom he found propped like a spare pilum against a crumbling wall, still overseeing all. Coming to his side, he asked in a low voice, “Is it true what they’re saying about Ducenarius Aquila and Cunorix?”

Weariness was etched deep into the lines of Hilarion’s face, and his usual lazy smile was very grim as he replied, “Oh yes, sir, it’s true right enough.”

The scene came into Gavros’ mind once more, sorely bright — Alexios’ face, alight in the autumn sunlight falling upon it through the high window of Ferradach Dhu’s hall, his smile as he clasped hands with Cunorix — and felt a sad lowering of his heart.

“How does he?” Hilarion asked, without the least shade of mockery in his voice.

“Well enough, considering,” Gavros replied. “Our surgeon has bound him up and now he is resting. I have him in my quarters for tonight.”

“Ah,” said Hilarion, as one in a muse; then, with a return of his usual mocking smile: “You will mind and be gentle with him, won’t you, sir? Only it’s been a long march for us all, and I reckon he should be spared too much exertion.”

The blood leapt hotly into Gavros’ face, and with a muttered curse against whatever fiend of Ahriman it was that had the governing of the senior centenarius’ tongue, Gavros took his leave.

When at last his rounds were completed, he made his way directly back to his quarters. He was not surprised to find Alexios still awake, still sitting on the edge of the cot where he had left him. But now, perhaps revived somewhat by his meal, he was sitting with an ugly tangle of metal and tattered emerald silk, which it took Gavros a moment or two to recognise for the Third Ordo’s dragon standard, which he must have hidden about himself during their retreat, and which he was not struggling to restore to its true state, despite his wounded arm. So absorbed in this task was he that he spared Gavros only the most fleeting look as he drew back the curtain, but he responded readily enough to Gavros’ asking after his arm. He answered, too, when Gavros asked him about Cunorix, but a veil came down behind his eyes, and he bent to his task with a new, determined attention.

Gavros looked down upon his bowed head for a long time, the dark curls matted with much sweat and dirt. He wondered what must have happened that things should have gone so ill between them at the last, and at first he doubted the wisdom of blundering upon such doubtful ground. But experience won out and, crossing to the window, he asked, deliberately looking out, “Do you think you could tell me the things that you left out of your report to the Commandant?”

“What would be the point?” asked Alexios, frowning.

For a moment, the words went still on Gavros’ tongue. Old, bitter experiences, old heartaches and disappointments, long buried in the deepest places of his heart, now ached anew, as if their ghosts had been called up. Command was a lonely business, even amongst the Wolves. In the eyes of his men, a Commander must be something else than human. If he had any doubts or fears, he must swallow them down, lest they infect his men in turn, like damp-rot in a granary. It was a hard burden, one that had often made him think himself that he might run mad, and Alexios’ shoulders were over-young to have to bear it so soon.

Instead he made some remarks about getting the details straight in his mind, then: “I think there have been have been things in the past few days that you will find it harder to speak of, the longer they remain unspoken, until maybe you cannot speak of them at all.”

So Alexios told him, still occasionally pulling at the flattened Ordo dragon on his knees. At first, he spoke in the same dead-level voice in which he had given his report to the Commandant, about Praepositus Montanus and his arrogant want of understanding towards the Wolves and the Tribes both; of Connla — young fool that he was — and the quick death that Alexios had been forced to give him to spare him a worse one. Gavros heard this part with a secret sadness. He had always suspected that young Connla would come to no good, though he had always assumed it would be by running foul of one of the other tribes. Not like this.

When it came to this part of the telling, Alexios raised his eyes to Gavros’ at last, and Gavros watched the shadows that seemed to dart just behind them. He felt he understood what it had cost him, and by extent, how the whole edifice had come toppling down and led to him and Cunorix crossing swords after all. He asked no more after that; he had no need to.

No more on that head, at least. Instead, turning his attention to the mangled dragon: “What would you be trying to do with that bit of wreckage?”

“Get it back into parade-ground shape,” Alexios replied, working at it with his knife-point. His injured arm was half out of its sling as he made the attempt, and despite his obvious frustration, he smiled warmly down at its ugly flattened grin, his whole face suddenly alight with a fierce pride. “But I don’t seem to have enough hands.”

Just then, a trumpet sounded Second Watch, casting them both into gloomy reflection at this familiar, defiantly Roman sound even as Rome prepared to abandon her outposts to the wilderness once and for all; then Gavros put out his hands. “Let me help you with that, then.”

A faint stiffening. “Surely it is mine to do.”

Gavros smiled. “Get away with you, lad; the Third Ordo was once mine, too, don’t be forgetting.”

Then they were both laughing, and Alexios relented, holding out the dragon to him. “Go on. Perhaps if you hold it for me, I can work it.”

So Gavros took it, and Alexios returned his knife-point to the place he had been working at before, and together they set about returning the dragon to something approaching its former glory. It was a slow, laborious business, for the poor beast had suffered much during its southward march, and there was much muttered cursing as they tried to prise it open. 

Once, as they turned it between them, their hands brushed, and a thrill of heat flared up Gavros’ arm, so vivid that he had to bite down on a gasp. He brought up his head sharply, and his eyes met Alexios'. Something unspoken seemed to flash between them, like lightning leaping between two high peaks, but almost as soon as the look was made, it was broken, and they returned their attention to the dragon.

At last, between them, they succeeded in prising it open. It had been hard doing, and in the end, the dragon wore a crooked, rather disreputable aspect, but there was no mistaking it for anything other than an Ordo dragon, and they both gazed at it fondly as Alexios held it up to the lamplight, letting the reflected flames slip and flare upon the bronze scales.

“Aye,” said Gavros warmly. “That should do it, I think.”

“A battered, worn-out Ordo dragon, for a battered, worn-out Ordo,” said Alexios, but he was smiling as he said it. “This will do very well for us tomorrow, I think.”

-

They rode apart the next day, for Gavros’ Second formed part of the Van, while Alexios’ Third were ordered to bring up the rear; so when at last in the quick-gathering winter dusk they at last came to the gates of Onnum on the Wall with its guard of blazoning gold and Imperial purple, and ringing with the cries of “Hail Caesar!”, Gavros did not see Alexios fall, but the rumour of it rippled forward through the ranks, and looking back, he was just in time to see one of the Onnum garrison already ushering Hilarion and Brychanus, bearing Alexios between them, to the infirmary block.

It was in his heart to follow, to see how he did, but he had no choice in the matter. Barely had the great Praetorian Gate swung shut behind them, than the men of the former Bremenium garrison were swept into the great rushing chaos of Onnum — a very efficient sort of chaos, under the eye of the Caesar Constans and his bodyguard, that with crisp briskness saw the sound men all billeted and stabled, provisioned and supplied, while the wounded were borne off to sick quarters, and the officers gathered to make their reports. Between these most pressing duties, he was obliged to put Alexios to the very back of his mind while he attended to his men, and it was only in passing that he heard from one of the men of the Third that their Commander was deep in the grip of a fever. Small wonder, Gavros thought, brought on by the great strains he had endured in his heart and mind, no less than those endured by his body; but, quietly, in his own breast, he worried and offered silent prayers to the Lord of Light to keep watch over him.

After that, as Constans’ forces started their counter-attack against the massed tribes, he and the Second were so often dispatched on sorties and scouting missions, that his time at Onnum was only ever brief and fleeting, barely time enough to make his reports, receive his new orders, and grab a bite to eat in the Mess before he was away again, and certainly not time enough to look into the infirmary, and so it was more than a month before he found himself once more in the same room as Alexios.

Of course, then they were both in the presence of the Emperor Constans and Alexios’ uncle the Dux then, so there was no chance to say any of the things he really wanted to. Much had changed in four short weeks: he himself was now a Praepositus, and it was a very different Alexios to the haggard, haunted man who had stood and swayed in the Commandant’s office at Habitancum. Still tired, still very pale and thin and subdued after his illness; but he had shaved, for one thing, and he bore himself before the Emperor and the Dux with a quiet surety that pleased Gavros’ heart to see.

Gavros himself, upon his own promotion, had already been privileged with a glimpse of the Emperor’s plan for the Attacotti prisoners that had been taken during the fighting, and he must work hard to keep the smile from his own face as Constans directed Alexios to the window so he might see them. And when Alexios chose to take the new Wolves over the certain honour of joining the Emperor’s bodyguard, Gavros found he was not at all surprised. Indeed, when he had seen Alexios come in, wrapped in his wolfskin and battered leather, his heart had known what choice Alexios would make, and he was glad for him. Something in the wolf-pack had called to his heart after all, and perhaps even his uncle the Dux had realised the same, for he came forward to take his nephew’s hand in both of his, and told him his father would be proud. A flush spread across Alexios’ stark cheekbones at that, but when he caught Gavros’ eye over his uncle’s shoulder, his gaze was clear and smiling.

Later, as the torches flared in the blue twilight, Gavros draped his wolfskin and sword upon the chest in his sleeping-cell, and sank down upon the striped blankets of his cot with a sigh of relief. Whatever the regular Legionaries might say about the Frontier Wolves, he was still glad at the prospect of a night’s sleep in an honest bed, rather than the stiff-frozen bracken and heather of the hills of Valentia. Now that the flames of the uprising had been smothered to a few scattered embers among the ashes, the Second Ordo now looked forward to a few days of relative comfort and ease at Onnum.

But all thoughts of sleep were instantly dispelled as a knock came at his door. “Enter.”

He had been braced for a messenger come to tell him that the Second were to be dispatched upon some new expedition, and that he should prepare to march within the hour, but the sense of weary resignation melted into pleasure as the door opened and Alexios slipped within, a faintly questioning smile upon his face.

“I was not sure whether I’d find you awake or not.”

Gavros’ tired face broke into a grin. “Awake — just.”

“Well, I won’t stay long. I wanted only to wish you joy of your promotion, Praepositus, since I hadn’t the chance earlier.” So saying, he drew a wine-jug from the folds of the green cloak beneath his wolfskin. “I had this from one of the merchants who followed the Imperial guard north. He swears it is true Falernian.” The arch of his brows betrayed his opinion of the truth of this claim.

“Aye?” Gavros laughed. “Well, I’m sure it must be decent enough, if it is good enough for those young bucks in the Emperor’s bodyguard. I daresay they’re used to a certain standard.” He motioned to the camp-stool by the bed. “Come sit you down, Alexios, and we’ll have it between us now. It’s not only my promotion that needs celebrating, after all.” He smiled at the pleasure that instantly warmed Alexios’ face. “Give you joy of your new command, lad. Like as not you’ll be Praepositus Aquila before too long.”

Alexios shrugged within his wolfskin, but he raised the cup that Gavros poured to him with a broad smile. “To the Frontier Wolves, old and new.”

“Old and new,” Gavros agreed.

They drank — it was assuredly not Falernian, but it was certainly better than the harsh vinegars that usually served for getting drunk on the Frontier — and sat quietly some moments, before Gavros asked, “What do you think of your new command, then?”

Alexios smiled. “A rabble to be proud of.” Glancing at him: "You did not seem very surprised earlier, when I told the Emperor I would take them."

"No?" Gavros chuckled. "Maybe it was in my mind that you had found your place among the Wolves, after all. Maybe it was that the wind carried a rumour as far as Bremenium last winter, about a young ducenarius who did not hesitate to dive headfirst among the Bull Calves, and earned himself a blackened eye and his men's respect in one throw."

Alexios laughed. "So you heard about that?"

"I did that. I would have given much to see it."

Alexios smiled, then looked down at his hands as he turned the heavy old emerald signet-ring on his finger. Watching him, Gavros wondered once more at the change in him. The Alexios Flavius Aquila he had first met a year ago had been little more than a boy, disgraced and miserable, doubt and fear trailing off him like a beggar’s rags. Now he was undoubtedly a man, his features firmed by experience and newfound wisdom, and though there was certainly sorrow in his face, there was a stillness about him now that had not been there before, as if he had found some new balance within himself.

“There is much I would like to tell you of this past year." He looked up again, meeting Gavros’ gaze, and in a quiet voice went on, "I am sorry that we shall soon have to part again.”

Gavros was sorry for it too, and he gave a deep sigh. “Ever that is the way of it for a soldier, Eagles and Wolves alike. We make a close friend in one province, one in another, but before we know it, we are whisked away to serve somewhere else, away on the other end of the Empire.” His mind flickered back to friends he had made over the course of his own service, men with whom he had shared friendship — and indeed, sometimes more — on the Rhenus, in Rome itself, in Judea and Pannonia, men who he did not know now were living or dead, but whose memories still warmed him through as surely as the wine.

Alexios gave a nod, gaze thoughtful. “But still, I will be very sorry to say farewell to you, Gavros. I owe you a great deal. It was you who showed me the first kindness I’d had since Abusina, and I don’t think I should have won my place amongst the men but for your advising.”

“Nay,” said Gavros, waving the thought away. “You would have done it anyway, I can see that now.”

A faint quirk lifted the edge of Alexios’ lips, and he leaned very faintly forward. “Whether that’s true or no, it was advice you offered freely, and I was — I am still — glad of it. You were the first friend I made in the North, Gavros, and that has a worth beyond reckoning.”

He reached out, touched his fingertips lightly to the backs of Gavros’ hands where they rested around his cup. Their eyes locked, held, and then — before Gavros quite knew where they were at, where either of them knew where they were at — they were together, Alexios’ jaw smooth against the rasp of Gavros’ stubble, his lips infinitely soft against Gavros’ cold-chapped ones. Gavros uttered a short moan, born of startlement and pleasure both, and felt the desire leap up high and bright within him like a flame.

It lasted barely as long as that before he recovered his senses and pulled away. “No. Wait.”

Alexios blinked up at him. “What is it?”

His heart was throbbing within his ribs, and the want was fierce and burning within him, but with ruthless force, he pushed it down. “I know that you have had much cause for sorrow, Alexios—”

A frown brought Alexios’ dark brows together, then it cleared in understanding, though not quite happily. “Is that what you think this is?”

Gavros hesitated. He did not know the exact nature of the bond that had been between Alexios and Cunorix, but he thought he had an inkling. But he could not find the words to say it, not ones that would not wound him. Happily, he was prevented from having to say anything, for Alexios went on:

“Yes, there is sorrow in me. Cunorix was my friend, and I killed him. Him and Connla both. Of course I grieve for him. But this is not about that. I am not simply looking for comfort from anyone who will offer it.”

Still Gavros could not reply, not trusting himself to speak. Seeing this, Alexios frowned again, more uncertainly now, and ventured, in a smaller voice, “Am I wrong, then? There have been times when you have looked at me and I thought… even before, like that last night before you left Castellum — but I was too ashamed of myself then to believe anyone could feel such a thing for me, and too ashamed to dare asking myself.”

“Name of Light.” Gavros shivered as the memory of that evening beside the grim old lioness returned to him. “No, you are not wrong, Alexios. I wanted you then — aye, and I want you now, even more — but it would have been a mistake.”

Alexios nodded. “Very probably. But I do not think it would be a mistake now. And if it is, well, I will be far away in Belgica before too long.”

Somehow, it was this reminder of how soon they would be apart again that released Gavros from his misgivings. With a small smile, he let his own hands stroke into the inside of Alexios’ wrists, brushing moth-light against the soft skin over the veins until Alexios’ breath ran shallow and his eyes darkened.

Softly, his own breath quickening, he asked: “Is this truly what you want?”

“Yes,” Alexios breathed. “I want you for yourself, Gavros, and if there is anything I have learned this last year, it is that any tenderness should be cherished, no matter how fleeting it might be. It is like to be a long time before we meet again, and I would be sorry if we let this chance go by, especially if it should prove our only one.”

Gavros’ heart was almost too full to speak, but somehow he did. “I should be sorry, too,” he murmured, and drew Alexios, smiling, back to him.

Before, at Castellum, he had imagined the sweetness of taking Alexios to his bed. Imaginings, he now found, were scarce to be compared with the truth of the thing. Alexios’ embrace was not, as he had still half-dreaded, the embrace of a man who wishes only to lose himself in whatever warmth is offered him. It was firm, eager, sure of what he wanted and what he wished to give in turn. Deep among the rumpled blankets and the heat they made between them, he bared his throat and chest to Gavros’ kisses, while holding him tight, letting his own hands and lips make as full an exploration of Gavros’ own body as they could, tracing every rugged line and scar as if committing him to memory. Gavros, for his part, sent up silent prayers to the Lord of Light with every kiss and rough-rasping breath that they had this moment, after all. They moved together, and all that passed between them did so without the need for words, and when at last they came to their end, it was together that they cried out.

After, as they lay together among the blankets, slipping in and out of a light, satisfied sleep, Alexios curled against Gavros’ side with a sigh, and they lay there in silence, listening to the trumpets call the Second Watch and the clash and thump of men and arms as the watch was changed. Then, as all fell silent outside again, Gavros turned his head to meet Alexios watching him with that faint smile about his lips.

“You were right,” Gavros said with a tired grin. “It was a good thing that we took this chance, after all.”

Alexios laughed, before leaning in to kiss him again. Drawing away again, he let his fingers trace the lines of Gavros’ face, but as he did, Gavros saw his laughter turn to a sort of thoughtful sadness.

“What is it?”

“I am only sorry now that I am not for longer here.”

The same sadness lay heavy on his own heart. Lightly, he touched his calloused fingers to the loose curls about Alexios’ face, brushing them gently aside. “It’s a hard thing for me too, I find.”

Bravely, Alexios offered another smile. “But this was a most pleasant hail and farewell, at least.”

“Surely. And who knows but a soldier’s life is full of comings as well as goings, especially these days, when there are so many wars upon the Frontiers and always forces needing moved from one place to another. It may well be that we shall find ourselves serving together again, sooner than we think.”

Alexios nodded, seemingly as if to himself, and laid a kiss to Gavros’ brow, just over the faint old Raven brand of Mithras. There was no need to speak of everlasting devotion, nor for wild poetic declarations of longing and eternal faithfulness. Gavros had no talent for that sort of thing anyway, and he had been among both the Wolves and the Eagles long enough to know that such a bond, once made, cannot easily be broken by mere distance. And the gods knew Alexios had no need of telling that even though a beloved one might go out of your life, it did not mean they also went out of your heart. They had all come through much, and they had this time together, and that was more than Gavros had ever let himself hope for.

“Once a Frontier Wolf,” he murmured.

“Always a Frontier Wolf,” Alexios agreed, and sealed the pledge with one more kiss.


End file.
